eemed
to suck sweetness out of every one; it was the deep, sensual
absorption of a fly in a pot of treacle. His eyes were dim with
pleasure long drawn out; they saw nothing, and it was some moments
before the pallor and pain of Frank's face dispelled the melliferous
Edens in which Mike's soul moved.

"What is the matter, old chap? Are you ill?"

Frank did not answer.

"Are you ill? Shall I get you a drink?"

"No, no," he said. "I assure you it is nothing; no, it is nothing."
He struggled for a moment for shame's sake to keep his secret, but it
was more than he could bear. "Ah!" he said, "it is all over; I'm done
for--read."

He stooped to pick up the paper. Mike took the paper from him and
read--

"Thursday--Lady Mount Rorke, of a son."

Whilst one man hears his doom pronounced, another sees a golden
fortune fallen in his hand, and the letter Mike had just read was
from a firm of solicitors, informing him that Lady Seeley had left
him her entire fortune, three thousand a year in various securities,
and a property in Berkshire; house, pictures, plate--in a word,
everything she possessed. The bitterness of his friend's ill fortune
contrasting with the sweetness of his own good fortune, struck his
heart, and he said, with genuine sorrow in his voice--

"I'm awfully sorry, old chap."

"There's no use being sorry for me, I'm done for; I shall never be
Lord Mount Rorke now. That child, that wife, are paupers; that
castle, that park, that river, all--everything that I was led to
believe would be mine one day, has passed from me irrevocably. It is
terribly cruel--it seems too cruel to be true; all those old
places--you know them--all has passed from me. I never believed Mount
Rorke would have an heir, he is nearly seventy; it is too cruel."

Tears swam in his eyes, and covering his face in his hands he burst
into a storm of heavy sobbing.

Mike was sincere, but "there is something not wholly disagreeable to
us in hearing of the misfortunes even of our best friends," and Mike
felt the old thought forced into his mind that he who had come from
the top had gone to the bottom, and that he who came from the bottom
was going--had gone to the top. Taking care, however, that none of
the triumph ebullient within him should rise into his voice, he
said--

"I am really sorry for you, Frank. You mustn't despair; perhaps the
child won't live, and perhaps the paper will succeed. It must
succeed. It shall succeed."

"Succe